


The Case of the Stolen Salad

by Small_Hobbit



Series: Sussex Retirement [29]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: Someone has been stealing Frank Wilson's tomatoes
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sussex Retirement [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/290954
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	The Case of the Stolen Salad

**Author's Note:**

> Written for DW's Ficletzone 'Cold Case' reverse fandom prompt 'Frank's Best'

I was sitting in the Red Lion one evening, enjoying a drink with Seth and Tom, when Frank Wilson came over towards us. He looked rather embarrassed, so I invited him to have a seat and tell us what was troubling him.

“It’s nothing really,” he said, “at least not in the important sense, but someone’s been stealing my tomatoes.”

“What?” Tom said. 

We were all surprised. It was an accepted fact that Frank grew the best tomatoes in the village. He didn’t boast about them, although he was always justifiably proud when he won the class in the village show. And indeed there was a certain amount of friendly rivalry between him and two of the other villagers as to who would win the salad cup for most points overall for salad vegetables, but since the winner always bought the other two a pint afterwards, there was no real malice.

In addition, he occasionally sold a few tomatoes to those who didn’t grow their own, but the price was reasonable. Also, since he grew his plants from seed, he made a little money by selling off some of the seedlings, but he wasn’t greedy, and indeed he had happily donated a couple of tomato plants when we had been planting the Hopkins’ garden. So it seemed very strange that anyone would wish to take his tomatoes.

“Could it be lads?” Seth asked.

Frank shook his head. “The plants are round the back of the cottage, so I can’t see the local lads coming down there. And if it was them, surely they’d pick the part-ripe ones as well. Whoever’s doing this is taking just the ripe ones.”

“It’s very strange,” I agreed. “I’ll have a word with Holmes, see if he can throw any light on the matter.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to trouble Mr Holmes,” Frank said. “I was really only mentioning it to you three because you’re around during the day, which is when it seems to be happening. Just in case you noticed anything.”

“Don’t worry about Holmes,” I replied. “He likes to hear about the mysteries of village life.”

Seth chuckled. “And soon we’ll be reading in that Strand magazine, ‘The Case of the Purloined Pomegranate’.”

“That’s a different fruit entirely,” Tom protested.

“I know. But it sounds more exotic than ‘The Case of the Taken Tomato’.”

We all laughed, and Frank left us, looking a little happier.

***

When I told Holmes about the stolen tomatoes, he merely nodded, said ‘hmm’ and refused to communicate any further. Either it had piqued his interest, or, more likely, he already had some thoughts on the matter, because he was up bright and early the following morning.

He had even checked on his bees before breakfast, so I was not surprised, as soon as we had finished eating, that he said, “I have a few errands to run this morning, I wonder whether you feel up to accompanying me?”

We have progressed from when we were in London and the message would say, ‘Come at once, if convenient,’ with the familiar corollary. The new request can now be translated as ‘I’m on a case, I’d like you to come with me unless your leg will be more of a hindrance to me than a help.’ 

I smiled, rose from the table and said, “Certainly. I’ll just get my hat and stick.”

“Can you fetch mine as well?” he called. 

He disappeared back to his shed and then returned shortly afterwards, one coat pocket bulging slightly.

We set off for the village, where Holmes began to run his errands. I dutifully followed behind him, never sure whether the particular errand was of importance, or merely something Holmes had been planning to do next time he was in the village. One thing which has not changed is his infuriating desire not to reveal his hand to anyone, including me, until he was ready to do so.

Finally, Holmes suggested we should have a drink before we made the return trip to our cottage, and accordingly we went to the Red Lion. It was a pleasant morning, so we sat outside. 

It wasn’t long before the grocer’s boy ran over and said, “Uncle Ned, says it’s now!”

“Thank you,” Holmes replied. He stood up, “Come, Watson, the game is afoot!”

Slightly reluctantly, I put down my part drunk pint and set off across the village green after Holmes. It is a long time since we have drawn attention to ourselves by running after a suspect, and although we were no longer capable of running anywhere, Holmes’ flintlike expression as he stepped briskly was sufficient to be noticed by a couple of Jem Woodrow’s men, who asked where he was headed.

“Frank Wilson’s cottage,” he replied, a little breathlessly.

“Should we run on ahead?”

“Yes, and delay anyone who’s leaving.”

The two men ran off and when we reached the cottage, we found them talking to a third man, who I didn’t recognise, although it appeared they knew him slightly.

“George Wilson,” Holmes said. “Would you mind showing me what’s in your bag?”

“Why should I?” Wilson replied. “You’re not a gamekeeper.”

“No, but my brother is,” one of the Woodrow men said. “Shall I arrange for him to call on you?”

“No game in here,” Wilson said. He opened his bag and the other man looked inside.

“No game, but those tomatoes could be Frank’s.”

His colleague also took a look. “And that cucumber is definitely one of mine. A couple of my cucumbers have gone missing, so I’ve taken to making a mark at one end, and that’s my mark.” He raised his fist.

Holmes hastily reached out to retrieve the bag so the salad wouldn’t be squashed as the blow landed squarely in Wilson’s face. Wilson stumbled backwards and then took off at a run.

“Aw, leave him,” the gamekeeper’s brother said. “We ought to get back to work. I’m sure Mr Holmes will have a word with the constable.”

Holmes promised he would, and the two men departed, leaving us to follow at a more leisurely rate.

“Did you know who it was all along?” I asked.

“I had my suspicions, but no proof,” Holmes said. “It was Annie Hopkins who tipped me off.”

“Do explain.”

“She said a man had offered to sell her some salad vegetables, but something had seemed a little suspicious about him, so she’d checked whether it was anyone I knew. I confirmed it was no-one from the village and she promised to let me know if she saw him again. I shall be able to tell her that she won’t.”

“Clearly it’s not just policeman who have their suspicions, their wives do too,” I laughed. “Oh, and what have you got in your pocket?”

Holmes produced a ball of twine. “If all else failed I thought we might need to set up a trip wire of some sort.”

“I’m glad we didn’t need to go that far. You know, it’s almost a shame this isn’t a sufficiently exciting story to write up for the Strand.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve just thought of the perfect title – ‘The Case of the Stolen Salad’!”


End file.
